


on how seasons change

by eudaimon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In summer, Loras Tyrell runs hot but he still finds himself dreaming of winter snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on how seasons change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pollitt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/gifts).



> A small moment of domesticity and warmth between my favourite characters in the series. I hope this is what you were looking for, dearest. HAPPY YULETIDE! <3

THIS IS MY WINTER SONG TO YOU  
THE STORM IS COMING SOON  
IT ROLLS IN FROM THE SEA  
\- sara bareilles

In summer, he runs warm and kicks away the sheets. When he was a child and his siblings were still children too, they used to all crawl into one bed and his Grandmother would tell them stories about dragons and kings. He used to lie with his head against Margaery's shoulder and play with the long, loose curls of her hair as they listened. His favourite stories were always about the Knights of Summer, though. As a boy, he had little time for love or loss of love.

He was thirteen, when they sent him to Storm's End to foster, and everything changed.  
Renly Baratheon, as it turned out, had known many stories on the subject of love or loss of love.

A child is supposed to look past childish things but Loras Tyrell's chilldhood things were swordplay and things done for the good of his family; he never outgrew these things.

Another thing that he never outgrew: the simple joy of waking with Renly beside him, the long, lithe spill of naked limbs, cotton discardeld, a cock already half-hard and a door locked from within.

A prince's word, beyond contestation.

"Today, I'm going to teach you to fight properly," he murmurs, pressing a trio of kisses between Renly's shoulderblades, lips lingering against smooth tan skin. "All day with a sword in your hand."  
"Not a sword," murmurs Renly, half rolling, fingers pushing into Loras's hair to cradle his skull between his hands. "Surely, not a _sword_ , my love."

"Yes, a sword," says Loras, distraced but not entirely by Renly's mouth and the press of his fingers. "Because you'll be King one day, Renly, if everything goes to plan, and it already isn't safe."

Renly's hands are long and graceful, softer than Loras' own, which are calloused and useful and not a match for his smile. Renly touches both sides of his face and Loras turns his head and presses a kiss to the unmarked heel of Renly's hand.

"Dearest heart," says Renly, gently. "Why would I need to protect myself, when I have you at my side?"  
"I might not always be there," says Loras, just as gentle, because what he is coming to realise is this: that beautiful days are fleeting, that handsome men are often cruel and that winter is coming on faster than they know.

They compromise. In underclothes and bare skin, they square off against each other with wooden swords, like boys. They were never children together

"Keep your head up," says Loras, swinging. "Back straight, but not tense."  
"Okay. Alright."  
"I'm not telling you again about that stance, Renly."

They never get a chance to dance. At banquets and balls, it's another Tyrell on Renly Baratheon's arm. And this is the way the world works.  
Loras darts, catching Renly across the top of his thigh with the flat of his blade. Renly makes a sound that's entirely undignified and Loras laughs.

It isn't dancing.  
But it's always been enough.

*

On his hands and knees, he bends gracefully and presses his lips to heated skin. His mouth lingers, a press of his tongue and, beneath him, Renly lifts his hips and shifts against the sheets. Loras presses one hand to the small of his back. It's an illusion of pressure, nothing more. It makes his point.

"Is that better?" he murmurs, both hands moving now, sliding against Renly's sides.  
"It might be. It's difficult to tell."  
"You're being a baby," murmurs Loras, rubbing one thumb along the raised welt.  
"I'll remind you of that the next time you're bruised black and blue by Brienne the fucking Beauty."

Loras presses a grin against Renly's skin.

"You need to get better with a sword," he says, straightening up, crawling over Renly's body until they're pressed belly to belly. "And then it wouldn't happen."

His cock slides against Renly's cock. His breath catches. Renly's hand slides into his chair.

"Is this how you speak to your king, Ser Tyrell?" says Renly, but he's smiliing when he says it, his lips grazing the underside of Loras's jaw. Loras knows how easy it would be for the point of a sword to find that soft spot. He teases, but he also knows that Renly had the best tutors and is more than good enough with a sword.

But here he trusts easily and utterly and always.

"This is how I talk to you _here_ ," he says, bending his head to catch a fleeting kiss. "Outside of this bed? I'll reconsider."

When Renly rolls them, it's surprisingly smooth. Long years of practise and familiarity have taught them how to fit together. His weight settles on top of Loras and his hand comes down, sharp, on the back of Loras' thigh. Neither of them are blind to the way that Loras' hips squirm against the sting.

"I ought to give you welts of your own," growls Renly and, this time, when Renly's lips touch Loras' skin, he feels the edges of his teeth.  
"Fuck that," Loras says. "Give me something else instead."

He feels Renly laugh more than hear it, a shiver of skin on skin. Renly's beard grazes the side of his neck, a brief, sucking kiss and then Renly's pushing up onto all fours. He straightens and Loras lies back against the pillow and takes him in for a moment, lithe and naked, his cock heavy and dark. Sometimes, he feels like he's trying to commit everything about Renly to memory, to store against a time when winter comes and they are older than they are now.

Renly wraps his hand around his own cock, strokes slowly, his eyes on Loras' face.

"Roll over," he says.  
Commanded, Loras does not hesitate.

He settles himself on his belly, knees spread. Since he was the smallest child, he's been on his guard. It's a Tyrell trait; nobody knows more about appearances and masks. He's never worn a mask for Renly, though. Since he was thirteen, since he went crawling into bed clothed in nothing but his skin or his desire, he's had no way to hide from Renly. And he wouldn't want it any other way. He'd never ask for anything else. There's nowhere else he'd be.

Renly's slick fingers come as a surprise. Loras bites his lip and closes his eyes, relaxes, lets go. Renly's body is alongside him, his mouth against Loras' shoulder as he fucks him with his fingers, makes him tremble and shake. One knee presses into the bed, giving Loras the leverage to rock backwards, to fuck himself and he feels Renly's breath quicken against his cheek. There's a third finger and something that sounds very like a moan against his skin.

"I need you," says Renly. "I need to _have_ you."  
"My love," Loras says, and lets his head drop to rest against the back of his hand.

And they both know that he's been _had_ for years.

Renly pulls away from him and Loras feels this strange loss that does not entirely have to do with being suddenly emptied. He hears Renly gasp and squirms, turning just in time to watch him stroking his cock with slick fingers. The oil on his skin catches and refracts the dim light. Loras half sits, reaching, his fingers covering Renly's. With the other, he pulls him down for a kiss, off-centre and wet, an almost desperate meeting of mouths. His knees are spread wide enough for Renly to slip between them, but it's Loras' hand that goes down, Loras' hand that guides Renly into place. For a moment, they don't kiss, just breathing against each other's mouths as they adjust. His knees cradle Renly's hips. The fingers of one hand comb through Renly's hair, longer now than it was at King's Landing.

"Oh, my heart," says Renly, and then he kisses him, hard and deep and whole, as he finds his rhythm and starts to move.

"I love you," Loras murmurs, and if there was ever any guilt to be had in this situation, any guilt when he sees Margaery and Renly sitting side by side then it wasn't his and it never will be. He was here first. His heart was already given.

*

He kneels in the dim light and bathes. The water is cool but his skin feels almost fevered, so there's a measure of relief there. Renly sprawls in rumpled sheets and watches him, one arm pillowed behind his head, fingers of the other brushing his lip. Crawling back into bed on all fours, Loras drapes himself alongside Renly.

"I'll give the most precious thing I own to know what you're thinking right now," he says.

Renly smiles and grazes a kiss against his forehead.

"I won't take it - you're going to need your sword when you're protecting me," he says.  
"Tell me anyway."

"I was just thinking that I'd give anything to have this forever," says Renly.  
Loras ignores the strange, sad flutter in his heart.

They turn towards each other, fall asleep intertwined, hearts beating within inches of each other.  
He dreams of snow melting on bare skin.


End file.
